Ava's Gift. Jason Mott

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      “I’m trying,” Tom said again, his voice harder.

      “Grandma,” Wash said.

      “You should have stayed away,” Brenda said. “When’s the last time you had a drink?”

      “He’s my son,” Tom replied. “Dammit, Brenda, he almost died.”

      “That’s right,” she replied. “Your son almost died, Tom. And you weren’t there.”

      “Grandma!”

      The room went silent, and Wash felt a palpable heat between the three of them, as if the door to a furnace, long kept shut, had finally been opened. His grandmother stood tall and still. She scowled at Wash’s father, as if she could make the earth open up and swallow him.

      But Tom remained there at her door, waiting, with an echo of Wash’s face hidden in the architecture of his own.

      It took a little more time and arguing but, in the end, Brenda conceded to letting Wash and Tom spend the afternoon alone together, just so long as they didn’t stray too far from the house and so long as they didn’t take Tom’s car. “No farther than you can limp off,” Brenda had said to the pair. “Doctors say he’s okay, but I’m not convinced. And the last thing I need is for him to have an episode and for me not to be there.” When Tom asked what she was afraid might happen to the boy, Brenda would only reply, “If a person could predict the unexpected, it wouldn’t be the unexpected, now would it?”

      “I suppose not,” Tom said.

      “And don’t be gone long,” Brenda added before they left. “He’s got somewhere to be.”

      She stood out back near the dog kennels and watched with disapproval as Wash and Tom made their way up into the mountain. There was a faint path that had been worn into the mountain over the years and the man and boy marched single file through the tall grass. Tom walked in front as Wash trailed behind, and before they reached the ridgeline, where they would disappear from sight, Wash looked back over his shoulder to see if his grandmother was still watching. She was. She stood like a lighthouse, tall and stoic and full of warning as, behind her, the dogs barked and pawed at their kennels, waiting to be fed.

      Then Wash and his father reached the top of the mountain and Brenda disappeared.

      “Pretty day,” Tom said, turning his eyes upward and breaking the silence between them. The sky was blue. The sun was bright.

      “Yes, sir,” Wash said.

      “I hate to say this,” Tom said, “but I’m not totally sure what to do now. I’d hoped to take you to a movie or something. Or, at the very least, to grab a bite to eat somewhere.” He huffed. “But, well, your grandmother...she’s...”

      “Protective,” Wash said.

      “Yeah,” Tom replied. “That’s the word I was looking for.” He turned and looked back at Wash. “So now I guess we just go for a walk through the woods.”

      “That’s fine,” Wash said.

      They marched in silence for a few minutes.

      “Do you still sing?” Wash asked. He could scarcely remember a thing about the man, but his memory was full of his father singing. There was a collection of moments that clouded his head, moments in which his father was holding a banjo or guitar in his hands, his face contorted awkwardly as the passion of the song overtook him. In those brief years when Tom was a part of Wash’s life, the man always filled the air with the tinny sound of bluegrass and folk songs. And when he went from Wash’s life, the music stayed.

      “I’ve been learning a lot of murder ballads,” Wash continued. “Ava says they’re morbid, but she actually likes them.”

      “You’re singing now?” Tom asked.

      “I try,” Wash replied. “But my voice...well, I don’t think I’m any good.”

      “Stop singing,” Tom said sharply. “Just let it go. It won’t get you anywhere. If you ask me, you should give up music altogether.” Tom’s steps seemed to fall more heavily, as though he were treading upon his own regrets. Then he asked, “You do any camping?”

      “A little bit,” Wash replied. The sun was growing warmer and he was beginning to sweat. “Ava and I have camped up here a few times.”

      “You spend a lot of time with her, don’t you?”

      “I suppose,” Wash said.

      “You like her?”

      “I guess so.”

      “No,” Tom said, smiling. “I mean, do you like her. You’re too old to pretend you don’t know what I mean when I ask that kind of a question.”

      Wash didn’t answer.

      “You a virgin?” Tom asked.

      “I’m thirteen.”

      “That’s not what I asked,” Tom said. “You wouldn’t be the first thirteen-year-old to have sex, and you wouldn’t be the last. I’m not accusing you of anything, I’m just asking.”

      Wash looked down at the ground and marched forward behind his father. “I’m thirteen,” he repeated.

      “I’ll take that as a yes,” Tom said. “But if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here for you. Okay? This is the kind of stuff boys are supposed to be able to talk to their dads about. My dad and I, we didn’t really talk much. But that doesn’t mean that’s how it’s got to be between you and me.” Tom scratched the top of his head and sighed. “Did she really do what they said?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder. “Did she really heal you? I mean, really and truly. It’s not just some scam, some hoax or something?” When his son did not reply to his questions, Tom scratched the top of his head again. “Wish I had a beer,” he said nervously. “I’m a little out of practice with all this. I’m not sure if I’m doing anything right.”

      They walked for a little while longer and eventually came to a clearing beneath the shade of a large patch of pine trees. Tom paced in a circle, as though looking for something. “How are you at making a fire?” he asked.

      “What do you mean?” Wash said. He sat on the ground and folded his legs. He was more tired than he expected and the coolness of the shade from the pine trees felt good against his skin. “I should have worn sunblock,” he said.

      Tom laughed. “You’ll be okay,” he said. “So, can you start a fire?”

      “With matches.”

      “No,” Tom said. “I mean, can you start a fire from scratch? Without matches or a lighter.”

      Wash thought for a moment. “Probably,” he said. “I’ve read books that tell you how to do it. Do you like Jack London?”

      “I’ve heard of him,” Tom replied. He was on his knees in the edges of the tall grass surrounding the clearing. He picked up dried pine needles and some dried pieces of wood. “That’s what СКАЧАТЬ